For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall close,
      That earthly cares and woes
     To thee may e’er return? 
        Arouse, my soul! 
        Slumber control,
    And let thy lamp burn brightly;
      So shall thine eyes discern
    Things pure and sightly;
      Taught by the Spirit, learn
        Never on a prayerless bed
        To lay thine unblest head.

  Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care,
     That calls for holy prayer? 
    Has thy day been so bright
        That in its flight
    There is no trace of sorrow? 
    And thou art sure to-morrow
      Will be like this, and more
  Abundant?  Dost thou yet lay up thy store
  And still make plans for more? 
        Thou fool! this very night
        Thy soul may wing its flight.

  Hast thou no being than thyself more dear,
        That ploughs the ocean deep,
        And when storms sweep
      The wintry, lowering sky,
      For whom thou wak’st and weepest? 
    Oh, when thy pangs are deepest,
  Seek then the covenant ark of prayer;
  For He that slumbereth not is there—­
      His ear is open to thy cry. 
        Oh, then, on prayerless bed
        Lay not thy thoughtless head.

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber,
Till in communion blest
With the elect ye rest—­
Those souls of countless numbers;
And with them raise
The note of praise,
Reaching from earth to heaven—­
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven;
So lay thy happy head,
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed.

MARGARET MERCER.

* * * * *

PRAYER AND REPENTANCE.

    FROM “HAMLET,” ACT III.  SC. 3.

The King.  O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t, A brother’s murder.  Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will:  My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.  What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow?  Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence?  And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardoned being down?  Then I’ll look up; My fault is past.  But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn?  “Forgive me my foul murder?” That cannot be:  since I am still possessed Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.  May one be pardoned and retain the offence?  In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice.  And oft ’t is seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law:  but ’t is not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled, Even